gemstone
by Bossy Mossy
Summary: I don't think I'd met someone as cold as you. I don't think I'd ever seen someone open up as much as you did for me. IoH/SI, ChelseaxVaughn.


I don't think I'd ever met some as cold as you were. I don't think I'd ever happened upon someone quite so guarded and protected, quite as rude and ruthless and _uncaring _as you were. You were curt, but after a quick greeting, any other attempts at formalities were shot down with a cold glare and a mumbled, "I wish people'd leave me to my business," the words coming out with an odd twang you'd picked up from traveling so much.

I'd tried to be nice; I'd attempted to thaw your icy exterior. At first, it was a simple, beaming smile when I went to buy animal feed and dog food, and later I found myself running to the dock late one Tuesday night, a warm container of porridge in my hands for your trip back to the city. It wasn't much, but the look you gave me and the dumbfounded, stuttered "thanks" was enough. I was getting through to you as well as I could.

You were trying as well as you could, for being as cold as you were. Wild flowers on my doorstep for my birthday, and a bar of chocolate in my mailbox for Harmony Day. I'd only figured who had given me the gifts when I found my way into Mirabell's shop one Monday, and you scuffled your cowboy boots around the wooden floor, your gemstone colored eyes fixed to your shoes.

I repaid the favor with a bowl of porridge and a fresh container of milk from one of my accepted both with polite nod and a "thank you," your words not nearly as jumbled in surprise as they had been the first time I'd given a gift to you. We still wheren't perfect, and I still hadn't quite chipped through your ice barrier, but hairline fractures were beginning to form.

I'd try to make sure I'd see you every Tuesday night, when the ferry would take you to the city, and every Sunday night, when you'd arrive home. I remembered what it was like, having my boat tossed around in a storm; that was how I'd arrived on the islands on the first place. While I was weary of your travels, I knew you'd go, hell or high water. It was your job, and your animals counted on you.

One particularly foggy and humid Tuesday night, I made my way to the docks, like I always did. The fog and the wind was making me uneasy, cooling the porridge in my hands. You met me and accepted the steaming gift, and paused before you boarded his ferry. With a deep breath through your nostrils, you leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead, your warm breath ruffling my hair.

"I'll be alright. Don't be worryin' about me," you said, the accent in your voice still evident. With a slight smile, you tugged your hat down over your eyes, and boarded the ferry into town. When you returned the following Sunday, I returned the favor, planting my lips against your cheek as you passed a handful of wildflowers to me.

There was no more ice. Despite the changing seasons and passing years, the ice, the guard you'd had up since the day I'd met you, had fallen. You didn't bother to put it back up. Your amethyst eyes didn't hold the cold, stony quality they had before, now filled with amusement and affection, the purple depths becoming deeper.

One night I handed your container over before you boarded your boat; but instead of containing a steaming portion of porridge, I'd conceiled a single blue feather. I waited until Sunday, my bare feet in the beach and unease in my stomach. When you came off of your ferry, your cowboy boots clacking against the wood, I knew by the look on your face that I'd done the right thing. Our wedding ceremony was seven days later.

You weren't guarded anymore; you still remained quiet and reserved, but your eyes lacked the annoyance, irritated look they once held, even in the winters, when your animal dealing slowed. You smiled more, even if you did have a habit of trying to hide it.

Our daughter is the same way, and even though she isn't old enough to understand, she does. She doesn't mind your silence or the way you don't have to speak to get your point across; she's always been a daddy's girl, but your silence is comforting. She has your gemstone eyes, and her childish speech has an echo of your twang in it. She doesn't cry when you leave on your ferry, but she and I always meet you on the dock the day you get back. No matter how long your day had been, or how testing your customers had been, you greeted your daughter with a kiss on the forehead. "D'ya miss me, baby girl?" You'd always say.

"'Course I did, Daddy!" She'd cry happily.

I don't think I'd ever met someone with a smile quite like yours. I don't think I'd ever seen such a reluctant person open up so much for someone else, as you had done for me.

Thank you, Vaughn.


End file.
